Page 79 of Fathers of the Bride

God, now she was talking to herself. Oh my God, she heard voices. That was not a good thing in a maid of honor.

“I’ll be in touch about the number of guests,” I said to Char and Cher. I had to get everyone out of there.

As we got up to leave, Avery said to me, “I feel bad, Miles. I never asked how you’re doing after the party. You’re okay, aren’t you?”

“It’s all good.”

“Don’t pay any attention to my family,” Avery said. “I’ll tell them to cool it. You keep working on the small, intimate little wedding Kelly wants.”

I bit my tongue. Of course, the wedding was no longer small and intimate. I’d sent out nearly three hundred invitations. I mean, not everyone would come but hopefully we’d have at least two hundred and twenty-five. And the rest would send gifts…

Add to that the staff: ten cater waiters, two bartenders, five musicians in the eighties cover band (that I hadn’t found yet), and four in the string quartet. Plus the officiant—oh my God, I hadn’t done anything about that. Who was going to officiate? I needed to get on that!

We’d gotten out to the sidewalk, and just before I turned to walk toward my car, I noticed a black Porsche SUV double-parked across the street. Sitting in the driver’s seat was Pudge, and next to her Lissa.

Then, in a flash, I realized that Martha wasn’t fantasizing about being a singer or a narrator, she’d been wearing a wire. Or rather, holding one.

“Oh my God,” I nearly screamed. Okay, I did scream, “YOU’RE A SPY!”

32

Andrew Lane

“A spy! Can you believe it?”Miles screeched when I met him the following morning at Bean There Donut That. Kelly and Avery would be staying at the house for the next few days, so I was relegated to The Maplewood Apartments. Beige. Imitation Danish modern. And boring.

“Well, yes, actually I can,” I said, after I finished ordering a latte with whole milk and a blueberry scone. “You know Pudge and Lissa are devious. Well, Pudge is. Lissa seems more like a devious follower.”

“A minion?”

“Yes, exactly.”

Miles ordered a mocha and a turtle brownie. He glanced at me a moment then said to the barista, “Make that two brownies.”

“Really?” I asked.

“You know you’re going to eat one of them.”

And that was true, so I kept my mouth shut.

“I feel like we should complain to Jeffery,” he said.

“The sensitivity coach? I don’t think—”

“Sending a spy to a cake tasting was very insensitive.”

“Miles, it’s not the same kind of insensitive and you know it.”

He studied me, like I was an exhibit in a museum.

“What?”

“Are you all right? You don’t look good. Are you drinking too much? You need to not drink so much.”

“I’m practically on the wagon,” I said, taking my order and thanking the barista. I had actually been cutting back. For whatever reason.

When Miles’ order came up, we walked over to the table he’d claimed by leaving his laptop and a light coat in the seat. “I was up very late. Social media.”

“Oh?”